just like a circus
by Wilhelmina Willoughby
Summary: HIATUS. L/J. "Listen to me. That bloke has been watching you – no, don't look! He's been watching you since you got in here. When I tell you, I want you to get up, saunter over to the bar, and order a Firewhiskey." Because Lily Evans does not get turned down.
1. I, lily

_A/N: Just bought the new Britney CD. This multi-chapter (probably about six or seven) fic will be based on that, will be rated M, and will feature a very different Lily than the one in Quiet Summer._

_Enjoy!  
Mina :)_

* * *

_There's only two types of guys out there  
Ones that can hang with me and ones that are scared  
So baby, I hope that you came prepared  
I run a tight ship, so beware_

_I'm a like the ringleader, I call the shots  
I'm like a firecracker, I make it hot  
When I put on a show... _

_All eyes on me, in the center of the ring  
Just like a circus  
When I crack that whip, everybody gonna trip  
Just like a circus  
Don't stand there watching me, follow me, show me what you can do  
Everybody let go, we can make a dance floor  
Just like a circus_

_Britney Spears, "Circus"  


* * *

  
_

The Three Broomsticks. Eight o'clock. Light snowfall. Heartbroken.

I kick the snow off my boots and push the door open. The abrupt switch from bitter cold to warmth swells my fingers and is almost suffocating, especially as the scarf around my neck seems to tighten, ready to strangle me to death before I can rip it off. I end up pulling out some of my hair as I wrestle it from my throat, but at least I can breathe again. There are few people here tonight – most Hogwarts students are holed up in the castle, studying for exams and too cowardly to brave the cold – and I suppose the rest of the Wizarding folk are afraid of the same. Still: there are a few people peppered about the room, and Dorcas and Siobhan catch my eye from our table in the corner.

"Hey," I say, pulling out a chair. "Sorry I'm late."

I don't offer up an excuse, and they don't need one. Dorcas does shoot me a look of empathy, one that I'm prepared to avoid, and Siobhan only nods her head in greeting as she continues to stare at the bloke behind the bar. I look more out of obligation than interest. He's cute, I'll admit it, but he's too… muscled. Too stocky? Too blonde? I don't know what it is, exactly, that makes me turn away from an obviously handsome guy, but I am pulled like a magnet to the butterbeer that was awaiting my arrival. It's hot, a welcome relief to the winter swirling around outside, and I wrap my hands around the mug, for the moment at ease.

It's been a long week.

"You holding up well?" Siobhan asks as she turns away from the bartender. She looks at me with those unremitting brown eyes – because of course she sees right through me, because of course I'm transparent as fuck – and sips at her Firewhiskey.

The real answer is no. They know that's the answer. I don't know why they bother asking, as it's written all over my face: no, I am not holding up well. To have fallen in love (lust?) with the biggest ass in the school and then have him deny me? To have him strut about the castle with a girl on his arm like he's _punishing _me? To have him sing her praises when I know – I _know – _he doesn't fancy her as much as he thinks he does? He's being a prick on purpose, and not that that's at all out of the ordinary, but he's doing it to _me. _

I've been fluctuating between being hurt and angry for the past few days. Sometimes I get to the bitter stage, where I blame it all on myself – after all, he's with her because I wouldn't be with him – but that soon turns to either tears or fury.

Turns out I'm only good with extremes.

"Yeah. I'm fine," I say. The sad, emotional stage is settling in, and I sink further into my chair, further into the heat of the room and the depth of my mug, waiting for it to pass. The butterbeer helps cool the ache in my heart, but there's still that sour feeling that's tinging my attempts to calm down.

Because he's nothing. He's _nothing. _In five, ten years, who the hell is going to remember James Potter? He'll be a burnt-out bum relieving his glory days at Hogwarts, telling stories about his Quidditch days to people who don't care, all while he rubs at his beer gut and gives dirty eyes at women twenty years younger than him. He'll be secretly miserable but he'll gloat about his estranged wife and bratty kids like they make his life whole, and as he's sitting in a bar at night, gambling all his money away and wondering where his life went, nobody is going to remember who James Potter is.

_Nobody._

"I'm fine," I say again, sitting my empty mug down. It slams into the wood of the table just as the door of the Three Broomsticks hits the wall, snow swirling in along with the raucous sounds of rambunctious teenagers.

Siobhan rolls her eyes, her jaw jutting out as she shakes her head. "Of course."

And in they come. Garrett Yates, from Hufflepuff; that stupid dog, Black; the bastard; and tucked under his arm, his new girlfriend, Isla Richards.

Of course.

They don't notice us in our little corner. I'm not sure if I care or not. My heart certainly cares, beating all out of order like it is, but my mind keeps telling me to push it away, Lily, push it far, far away. I'm still watching the other side of the room, watching him pull out her chair, watching her smile up at him like he's some kind of damn saint, watching Yates and Black make fun at him for his chivalry, when Dorcas pokes me in the side.

I could be there. That could be me. I just… some part of me wanted it – really wanted it. Perhaps it had just been a boyfriend in general and not necessarily Potter. Perhaps I had just wanted someone to pull out _my _chair for me. Perhaps I was waiting for someone to sweep my off my feet in some kind of grand gesture. Perhaps I just wanted a good snog. Whatever it was, it had just taken me too long. He ran out of patience, waiting for me to decide if I hated him or not, and moved on. And now he sits with a fairly pretty, very charismatic girl who is wickedly witty and actually enjoys his company and where am I? Nursing a butterbeer on the far side of the room, staring at them like a bitter, lovesick spinster.

And that is not who I am.

Dorcas pokes me again, this time landing a finger right between my ribs. I flinch, uttering curses, and turn to glare.

"_What?_"

Backing down from my sudden snappiness, she points to Siobhan, who raises a slender, pierced eyebrow before leaning over the table and grabbing my neck to bring me to her level.

"Cut this shit out," she says.

I immediately try to pull away – I'm not _doing _anything – but her grip is fierce. "Listen to me. That blonde bloke has been watching you – no, don't look! He's been watching you since you got in here. When I tell you, I want you to get up, saunter over to the bar, and order a Firewhiskey."

"I can't drink, I have an exam – "

Even as the words come out of my mouth, I'm aware of how much of a goody-goody I sound like and how it reminds me of yet another row with Potter. Goody-goody. Just because I'm responsible enough to be mindful of my future –

"You sound like Dork – "

"Hey!"

"And that's not necessarily a good thing in this situation," Siobhan finishes. She presses her forehead against mine as if the gesture will imbue some of her self-assurance through our skulls and into my brain, whispers, "be sexy," and then pushes me away.

Stumbling out of my chair is not the sexiest thing ever, but luckily neither Potter nor Bartender Bloke are paying attention yet. I'm not in the most flattering outfit, either, but a nice pair of jeans and a sweater is hardly frumpy, so I run a hand through my hair and remind myself that it's not the outfit that I need to show off, it's the fire. It's that confidence I feel only on the best of days, when everything goes right and I feel invincible. It's the feeling when I know I have the attention I want. And somewhere between the table and the bar it clicks – I stand up straighter, push my chest out a bit more, sway my hips, and smile – nay, _smirk _– as I feel a few new pairs of eyes on any given area of my anatomy. It's _my _saunter, just marginally more effective than Siobhan's (it's been field tested and proven), and I only break it out in the most desperate of times.

And just like that, the sadness is gone, replaced by determination and revenge.

Lily Evans does _not_ get turned down.

I feel his stare on my back as I sit at the bar, and it's just what I need to be able to lean over and catch Bartender Bloke's arm. He _is _muscled, almost ridiculously so. More than Potter's stringy arms, at least.

Ass.

"Mind if I ordered a Firewhiskey?" I ask, drawing my hand away. If I'm not mistaken, there's a little blush growing on his face. His cheeks are rounded, his eyes a dark blue, his lips thin, and he looks to be only a few years older than me. Definitely better looking than I had initially thought.

"You old enough?" he asks. We both know he's going to give me one anyway, but I nod, drawing my wand just in case he'll ask me to prove it. He waves it away. "Nah, that's good. I trust you."

I laugh. "More than some."

Something catches his eye behind me. Potter.

Mission one accomplished.

I stretch my arms behind my head, giving Bartender Bloke a generous chance to glance at the goods while I'm pretending to be oblivious, and internally, simultaneously giggle at my audacity and wonder what the hell I'm doing. This is an innocent bystander here; am I just doing this to get back at Potter? To get my confidence back? To impress Siobhan?

_I'm… having fun. That's all this is. I'm sick of being a downer and wasting my time on that waste of life._

"Here y'are," Bartender Bloke says, sliding the Firewhiskey down the bar into my waiting hands. He smiles pretty, tossing his cleaning rag over his shoulder and not hiding his stare anymore, and I rest my head on my arm, staring right back. Mission two accomplished, and he is _definitely_ better looking.

"How about a deal," he says. "That drink's on me if…"

I cock my head. This could be dangerous. "If?"

"If you tell me your name."

The grin, this time, is involuntary. He's a sweet guy. I should probably turn back now, go back to my table, tell Siobhan I did what she told me to, and call it a night. There's no reason for two broken hearts in one night, right? And the way this guy is watching me…

I really don't want to hurt him.

But then the snickers start behind me, and when Isla scolds, "James! That's not very nice," I can't not take a chance. Potter made his choice, Potter moved on; why shouldn't I?

I take my hand from my Firewhiskey and offer it to him. "Lily."

And Bartender Bloke, bless his heart, wipes his hand on his jeans before taking mine. "Cal."

The Three Broomsticks. Eight twenty. Heavy snowfall. Naughty.

* * *

_TBC!_


	2. II, james

_A/N: Hey, y'all! Point of view has switched to James, so keep that in mind! I hope I got his voice down alright, haha. Thanks for being patient, and Happy 2009!  
_

_As always,  
Mina :)_

_

* * *

  
_

The burning in my chest is not from the Firewhiskey traveling down my throat or the heat of Isla's hand on my thigh but from the intense anger that I'm trying to radiate toward the bar right now.

Because how dare she? Really. How _dare _she. She knows what she's doing, and if there's one thing I hate more than anything else in the world it's when people lie. It's when bitter harpies like her spend time making people miserable, dodging the truth like she's been doing for years now, lying and lying and fucking lying some more because she can't handle being the one in the wrong. And it's not even being in the wrong, it's just telling the truth for once - for _once! _- about how she feels. Even to herself. What could be so wrong about her and I together that makes her so… so…

I drain the rest of the alcohol from my mug. Merlin help me, I am going to be so ridiculously smashed by the end of the night.

Garrett looks appropriately wary. "You alright, James?"

_Nod. Nod, James, so that you don't run up to the bar and pull her away and punch that blonde bastard in the throat. Nodding… good. Nod. Smile._

It's a grimace, but Garrett sees it as a smile, at least, and that's what he gets for trying. A grimace. Sometimes I don't know why he hangs around us - us four gallant, marauding men, that is - but he's the only other guy in the dorm and it'd be awkward not to include him. Plus, he's been eying Isla for the past, oh, six years or so, which turns out to be awkward when we include him, seeing as she's my girlfriend, but what can you do?

So I grimace and Garrett's satisfied and beautiful Isla, smart, witty, gorgeous Isla, is talking to Sirius about Quidditch or something, because she's amazing like that, and I'm watching Evans.

Watching Evans. Even with a girl like Isla sitting next to me, I have to Watch Evans.

When McGoogles calls me into her office and asks me what I want to do with my life, I'll have to say, _Why, I want to watch Lily Evans for the rest of her bloody lying life, _because what else am I good at? I have years of experience in Watching Evans. I don't have to look at her to be able to Watch Evans. Sometimes I don't even have to be in the same room and I can Watch Evans; through walls, as she's several floors away from me, when she purposely takes the seat behind me in class.

And she knows it. She's always known it.

So I'm Watching Evans and she's Taunting Potter, as always, and it's infuriating me, the way she's leaning over the bar and flirting with Cal Alexander, an old Beater and Ravenclaw graduate with a stunning right hook (what? I also Know People). All I can think is a constant cycle of _sheknowssheknowssheknows _as she tilts her head to the side and gives him that slow smirk: _target locked._

It's just… You know when people say they _see red_? I don't see red. I don't know how you _see red_, really, unless your eyes are bleeding, and blood's not that transparent, is it, for somebody to be able to see through it - but anyway, I am almost seeing red, my blood pressure is that high, just about to burst through my eye sockets.

"James?" Isla nudges me in the ribs. "Hey. Over here."

"Sorry," I say, shaking my head free of Evans' pull. Isla's eyes are guarded - she sees, I know, what is going on, but the most wonderful thing about her is that she always understands. She doesn't like what's between Evans and I - nobody does, to be honest - but she _gets _it.

I kiss her on the forehead. "Sorry," I say again, more sincerely. "Anyway, I agree with Isla."

"You weren't even listening!" Sirius shouts, throwing his hands in the air. "You were - ugh. Prongs, mate, _what_ - "

I shrug. "Isla's smarter than you."

At that moment, her smile is much more brilliant than Evans'. Looking at her almost calms me down. They're not exactly opposite in looks, the two of them, but they're not too similar, either. Isla's skin is pale, her face round, and her lips full, all like Evans', but Isla's eyes are a deep, deep chocolate color and her hair just a few shades lighter. Her features are softer than Evans', and she's a bit shorter, too, and -

I cut myself off. Isla is not Evans. This is a good thing.

"What did I agree with you about?" I ask, slipping on a smirk to cover my distraction.

Isla and Garrett laugh, and Sirius rolls his eyes. He nods towards the bar. "Never mind that. Fancy taking a bet?"

I hold his gaze. This is pretty dangerous territory and he knows it, and he knows that Isla knows it, and Isla knows that I know it, and everybody's in the know but Garrett, who almost chokes in his enthusiasm. "I am _so _up for a bet, mate. What are we betting on? Who's got what? I only got a Galleon on me, though, so…"

Sirius' sigh goes by unnoticed by all but me. He squints at the bar, watching as Cal and Lily continue chattering on, checks to make sure Dorcas and Crazy Delaney aren't paying attention, and then leans in. "Three Galleons says that Evans goes with him tonight."

My first instinct is to balk, because of course Evans wouldn't leave with a bloke she just met, but then I have to remind myself that I don't know her as well as I trick myself into thinking I do. I mean, she wouldn't, would she? She's smarter than that. He's got a pretty-boy face, sure, and he's a nice guy, but…

She's smarter than that.

Right?

Isla and I glance at one another - _good idea, James; let her see everything you're thinking - _and then she shrugs and sighs and stands to dig some coins out of her pocket.

"Three Galleons says she doesn't."

And I am surprised.

She shrugs at me again as she sits. "Let's call it women's intuition."

Garrett throws his Galleon on the stack forming in the middle of the table. "I think… well, it's Evans, right, and she's kind of… not to say anything, James, but she's - and I like you, Isla, but Evans is - "

"Your bet, Yates," Sirius says, trying hard not to laugh. "Will she or won't she?"

Garrett rubs his knuckles together. He looks at me, at Cal, back at me - not sure what that's about, but whatever - and says, "A Galleon says she does."

They then look at me. I'm tempted to back out of it, I need to back out of it - what the hell do they expect me to say? That I think she might take it too far, especially if she drinks too much, just to prove her point? That I think Cal might have a few wicked ideas hiding behind those innocent blue eyes of his? That I want her to leave with _me, _even though the odds of that are slim and I'll really ought to be leaving with Isla? And what does all this "leaving" business entail, anyway?

It's a bad thought to think, the one that finally comes to me, but it's out there, and once my eyes glide across to the slope of Evans' back as she perches upon the bar stool, the curve of her thigh as she crosses one leg over another, I can't pull it back to where it came from.

I don't let myself debate my way out of it. Dad says Potter men have a mind like a one-way train, and once we set off, there is nothing that can come between us and what we want. I suppose it's true, because I toss my three Galleons on the table and mutter a low, "She won't, I'll be right back" before sliding Isla's hand off my thigh and pushing my chair back. My anger is gone, replaced by the thrill of a challenge.

Garrett's gone from my mind, and Sirius is gone, and Isla is gone, because I'll be damned if I lose three Galleons on this.

James Potter does _not _lose.

Evans pretends not to notice as I sidle up next to her at the bar. I can feel the heat of several pairs of eyes on my back; it makes me feel confident. Invincible. Especially when Alexander turns to me with that unsuspecting smile, unaware of what I'm about to take right from under his nose. Poor Beater, with his awfully slow reflexes...

"Alexander," I greet, nodding at him.

He frowns. "Do I…?"

My grin comes easy. "Oh, I'm sorry! We went to Hogwarts together. Ravenclaw, right? You graduated in my - _our, _sorry, Evans - fourth year. By the way, Evans, don't you have a big exam tomorrow?"

"Go die, Potter," she growls.

Her voice isn't low enough to keep it from Alexander, who raises an eyebrow. I wave him off. "She hates me. At least she _thinks _she does. It's all just a repressed - "

Evans grips my thigh - or claws, I don't know, but it hurts like hell - underneath the bar. Panic that somebody is seeing this is only a slight blip in the back of my brain. She turns to me slowly, her eyes on fire, and bites out, "Can I speak to you? _Outside?_"

"Of course you can, Evans!"

I tap the bar, thanking Alexander, and follow her angry stride to the door. Garrett looks impressed as I pass, Sirius amused, but I have to look at Isla. Eyes guarded yet again, she blinks at Evans, swings her eyes to me, and turns her lips upwards.

Trusting.

"Be right back," I repeat. I wink at Isla; her eyes brighten, more sure.

I almost hate myself for it, because I'm a dirty hypocrite, lying to myself like I don't know what's about to happen, lying to Isla, because she knows what might happen, but by then Evans has me pushed against the exterior of the Three Broomsticks and her face is so close that I can't ignore the burn, burn, burn of something much different than anger flowing from her eyes.

_

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_


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